


Happy endings (are the rule)

by Lilliburlero



Category: Grantchester (TV)
Genre: Christian Character, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Period Typical Language, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-11 23:18:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12946167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilliburlero/pseuds/Lilliburlero
Summary: Leonard moves on, in various ways.





	1. Winter 1955

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Marie (VampireSpider)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VampireSpider/gifts).



The reception room of the diocescan offices looked like the set for a rather old-fashioned play, Leonard thought. The unread-looking leather-bound books, the unsat-in leather armchairs: a whole herd of cows must have perished to furnish the curiously unreal atmosphere. His misshapen reflection, swimming in the high sheen of the enormous, empty table, seemed almost too heavy-handed a symbol for his uncertain place in the Church’s structures. But the Archdeacon’s reflection was there too, just as wavering and distorted. He could do this, he thought: find the common ground between them. He had to.

A trolley rattled from the antechamber behind him and the Archdeacon bounded to his feet with a warm greeting to the tea-lady. Leonard thought suddenly of Mrs Young―the Honourable Mrs Young―saying: _One can always tell a grammar school girl who’s married well by the fact that she’s a trifle too familiar with her own servants, and uncomfortable with yours_. 

Daphne had already been rolling her eyes and framing the first syllable of an exasperated _Mother―_ when Leonard, caught off-guard by such rank and open snobbery, responded unthinkingly to what she meant, not what she said. _I wouldn’t know,_ he had replied. _I’m not a girl. Or married._

The ferocious old dragon had, to her credit, found this tremendously amusing, and he’d become a firm favourite with her, until―until. He must write to Daphne again. Maybe one day she would write back, though he could quite see why she wouldn’t want to expend one of a lifer’s precious ration of letters on someone who’d done more than his bit to lock her up. 

‘Milk and sugar, Mr Finch?’ The Archdeacon’s enquiry brought him back to the soulless room. 

‘J―just milk,’ he stammered. ‘Please.’ 

‘And a piece of fruit cake? Do say yes. I’m deluged with them at this time of year, and I don’t quite like to say to all the kind ladies that they really don’t agree with me. I prefer savoury dishes: I have never eaten the equal of my late wife’s roast chicken.’ The Archdeacon’s stern face softened and his eyes almost twinkled. He was really a very likeable person in so many ways, Leonard conceded. 

Christmas cake was the last thing Leonard wanted, but he accepted a piece. ‘My mother used to eat it with a slice of Wensleydale cheese,’ he said. ‘It sounds unlikely, but the flavours do actually work very well together.’ 

The Archdeacon laughed. ‘I shall have to try it. Now, let’s get down to business. I was somewhat surprised by your letter at first. But when I reflected a little, I could see a certain sort of sense in not prolonging your curacy beyond a three year term.’ 

‘I’ve thought and prayed a good deal. And I think it’s God’s will for me.’ 

Though this was the simplest possible statement of the truth, it sounded faintly foolish spoken aloud. Pious. _Religious_. The adjectives came to him in his father’s voice, rough and sneering. The Archdeacon’s face was quite still, impassive. He must have had a lot of practice in giving people enough rope to hang themselves with. Not unlike a detective, in that. Except detectives weren’t always so patient. Troubled suddenly by the recollection of Mark Davies’ swollen face and broken teeth, Leonard swallowed hard. Of course one should forgive, but Sidney’s easy extension of absolution to Geordie sometimes seemed like cheap grace. 

‘Do you think you are ready to take on the practical and pastoral responsibilities of a parish?’ 

The meetings, the rotas, the accounts, the social and study groups, the sermons, the weddings, baptisms and funerals, the bills for repairs and maintenance, the fundraising, the mediations between quarrelling churchwardens and vergers all flashed before Leonard's eyes. Panic bloomed in his chest, poking its tendrils into his throat to choke him. He remembered stumbling downstairs, nauseated and groggy, his arms and legs somehow leaden and watery at once, to find Sidney’s note. 

_Dear Leonard,_

 _I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry to have done this._

(Why’d you do it then, you mardy bastard? If you knew it was wrong?) 

_I need some time to think._

(And I don’t? Why is it that you are allowed just to take what you want, leaving me to mop up?) 

_Do a better job than I have done. Be a better man. ―Sidney_

(Not leaving me much bloody choice, is it?) 

But Leonard had decided at that moment that he would do a better job. That he would be a better man. He could break, shatter into jagged fragments of bitterness, dissolve into a puddle of self-pity, or he could go upstairs, change the dressings on his wrist―it was bleeding through, what it really needed was a stitch or two, but that was obviously impossible―and just get on with it. And, somehow, he still wasn't sure how, he had. 

‘Yes,’ he said to the Archdeacon. ‘I am. My training hasn’t been conventional.’ 

The Archdeacon’s lips twitched. ‘You can say that again,’ he said, dry as one of Amanda Hopkins’ celebrated martinis. 

‘But it has been―sound. Effective,’ Leonard continued. ‘I think I can take whatever a parish has to throw at me.’ He took a sip of tea, more to test the steadiness of his hand than because he wanted it. 

The Archdeacon nodded. ‘You have coped well with challenges that few curates have to face.’ 

Leonard felt himself flush, and his teacup, hitherto held perfectly firm, clattered betrayingly as he returned it to the saucer. The Venerable Gabriel Atubo was not lavish with praise, and he set the bar for an obstacle successfully overcome at his own punishingly high standard. 

‘Th―thank you.’ He probably ought to make a go of the cake too, but the prospect was like tucking into a plate of ground glass and needles. 

‘But―’ the rich, round vowel and clicked 't' made the reservation sound particularly ominous. ‘That is partly the problem. Men who make it their business to confront wrongdoing are like those who clean the drains. Everyone agrees that they are socially necessary. Nobody wants to―sit next to them on the bus. Your action in exposing my predecessor might in itself dissuade a timid bishop from welcoming you to his diocese. You look sceptical. I can assure you there are bishops who are timid, behind a façade of confidence. _Splendid chap_ , they will say, _very courageous. But isn’t there a chance he’ll rock the boat?_ ’ 

The compliment made the cake seem even less digestible. Leonard’s fingers closed on the dense, sticky slice. ‘I sense that’s personal experience speaking, Archdeacon.’ 

‘Yes,’ he said simply. ‘Here, it seems, I can rock the boat just by drawing breath. And if I try to conciliate, convince them I am not a dangerous savage, people allude to a certain novel by Mrs Beecher Stowe.’ He raised a wry eyebrow. ‘You understand me, Mr Finch?’ 

‘Oh, yes.’ No longer quite sure where the conversation was going, but recognising the misdirection as a universal archdecanal tactic, and as such almost reassuring, Leonard decided that the best thing he could do was take a rather large bite of cake. He regretted it instantly: it was one of those that somehow contrived to be both gluey and dry, with abundant sour knobbles of candied peel. The sort of chewing you could do without making a noise didn’t seem to make much impact on it. 

‘But it’s not just that,’ the Archdeacon continued. ‘Practically the first thing a patron is going to say is: _and who was Mr Finch’s training incumbent?_ To which we will be obliged to reply―’ 

The lump of cake which Leonard had with some difficulty just swallowed seemed to drop with a thump into his belly. ‘Sidney Chambers,’ he said. 

‘The scandalous Sidney Chambers.’ 

Leonard searched the Archdeacon’s face for signs of irony, and found only an unreadable impassivity. His instinct was to defend Sidney, but he sensed that might only make things worse. 

‘It isn’t―it wasn’t. Anything at all what it looked like,’ he ventured. 

‘It almost never is. But the appearance is what matters, to the people who hand out livings in the Church of England. Mr Chambers involves himself in the business of the Constabulary as a sort of _irregular_. Several persons have, as a result of his efforts, faced the ultimate judicial sanction.’ 

‘Sidney’s against the death penalty. So am―’ 

‘I am inclined to think it incompatible with Christian society myself. Which is all the more reason why Mr Chambers should consider rendering a little less unto Caesar, and a little more unto God. More seriously, from the point of view of those concerned with respectability, was that dalliance with a married―’ 

‘Separated. In fact, I think divorce proceed―’ 

‘ _Married_ ―’ Leonard shrank back under the Archdeacon’s blazing glare. ‘Woman. He showed a concern for her baby that is only, to a certain sort of mind, amenable to one explanation.’ 

‘Oh, really, I mean―no! Grace is definitely―’ 

‘I did not say I had that sort of mind, Mr Finch. And I am glad to see the matter is concluded. I believe Mr Chambers made the right choice. However, the Bishop still thinks that he should take―a sabbatical. In the company of the erstwhile Abbot of Grantchester. I was able to convince him that such a course was unlikely to have a desirable outcome.’ 

‘Gosh. Thanks. I mean, yes.’ Leonard had once heard Jonathan Darrow―Anglo-Catholic mystic, exorcist―speak at a conference. His charismatic ministry was as remote from Sidney’s pragmatic, Broad Church one as their imposing height and good looks were similar. Though Darrow must be twice Sidney’s age, in the event of a physical confrontation, Leonard’s money would only be on his incumbent out of a sense of parochial loyalty. He pulled himself up: it was probably rather wicked to assess fellow clergymen for their potential as prize fighters. 

‘Of course, if you could point to a stable and happy marriage, it could do a good deal to reassure a skittish bishop. Not to mention the personal benefits.’ 

Leonard had come prepared for this bit, but icy pinpricks spread over his scalp and the pulse in his neck jumped. 

‘I’m sure you’ve heard that Miss Franklin released me from our engagement. When we discussed having a family, I recognised straight away that wasn’t the direction in which I was called. I’m sure you can see the problem, Archdeacon. It wouldn’t have been a proper conversation to have outside a formal engagement, but it could very naturally be an issue over which to end one. ’ 

Daniel had formulated this argument, though it had fallen to Leonard to translate it into the dialect of the Church of England. For a mere second he saw Daniel’s sharp features and bright wary eyes, behind a wagging wine glass, superimposed upon the Archdeacon’s teacup and meditative gaze. The Archdeacon frowned slightly in what Leonard was horrified to recognise as sympathy. He reminded himself that he had told no lies, even by omission―the moment Hilary had mentioned children was in all truth the moment he knew he couldn’t go through with it―but he was making his reaction to her perfectly reasonable expectation of parenthood sound a lot more mature and judicious than it had in fact been. And concealing Daniel’s place in his life always seemed like dishonesty, even though there was no alternative to it. 

‘Celibacy is a flinty road and a bitter cup, Mr Finch. Many more think they are called to it than are in fact. I have known some men make a success of it. None of them were like you.’ 

Leonard gripped the edge of the table. He sensed his face was probably as white as his knuckles. It was one thing to stand up for Daniel against the likes of Richard Riley, who knew nothing much about being on the receiving end of prejudice, quite another to do it on his own account in front of the Archdeacon, who knew rather a lot. How many times had the Archdeacon looked someone in the eye and said levelly, _What do you mean, like me?_

‘L-like me?’ 

The Archdeacon finished his tea before he replied. ‘Men who find God in their love of others. The celibate temperament knows God more directly. But the Church does not need many such men, and though your sort is more common, we still can’t get enough of them.’ 

Leonard, who still liked to think of himself as fundamentally a scholar and a contemplative, though confidence gained and pleasure taken in pastoral work had disturbed that self-image, was slightly stung amid his relief. He thought politeness probably demanded he have another stab at the cake, and picked it up reluctantly. 

‘So, I suppose we must acquaint the Bishop with this development―’ the Archdeacon went on, ‘if you have not already―’ 

He thought he had only taken a small bite, but the wretched stuff seemed to swell in his mouth. He shook his head frantically and swallowed the spiky, glutinous mass. ‘You mean―’ 

‘If you are not too choosy, Mr Finch, and your valiant progress with Miss Headingly’s cake commends your willingness to take on a challenge, I think we will see you situated before next Christmas. But also you should know your limits―’ 

‘Oh yes, absolutely.’ He bit his lip. ‘But―’ 

The Archdeacon broke into warm, rare laughter. ‘I mean, give up the unequal struggle with that cake. Conserve your energy. You will need it.’


	2. Summer 1956

Leonard lifted the curtain separating the low village-hall stage from the makeshift wings, and stepped down. Hilary looked up from her mending with the strained apprehension of one who expects to be blamed for something of which she has yet no knowledge. Seeing who it was, she dipped her head back into the circle of light cast by the anglepoise lamp and murmured, ‘Hullo, Leonard.’

‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘I knew real spurs were a mistake.’ These articles adorned the heels of the dentist who took the role of Macheath in the Choral & Dramatic Society’s summer production of _The Beggar’s Opera_ , a man in his late thirties with a fine baritone and shadowy, saturnine good looks. The producer, flabbergasted at her apparent good fortune, had not troubled to assess his capabilities beyond these before casting him. He revealed himself on the first day of rehearsals as both so clumsy that he could barely traverse the stage without leaving a trail of debris in his wake, and too conceited to take the simplest of direction. This afternoon, at the close of his duet with Polly Peachum, his rapier had become entangled in her hooped skirts, doing less damage than his attempts to disgage it, which had somehow got the spurs involved, landing the poor girl flat on her back in a sea of primrose satinette, stiffened petticoats and hastily suppressed guffaws from the stagehands. By some miracle she had not been injured. Hilary, wardrobe mistress, was patiently repairing the flittered consequences to her costume. 

‘I think maybe the whole thing’s been a mistake,’ she sighed. ‘Too ambitious. We should have stuck with Gilbert and Sullivan. Everyone knows where they are with Gilbert and Sullivan.’ 

‘Someone—I used to know, who was in rep up North, always said that a good dress was bad luck.’ He had, with Daniel’s readmission to his life, started to speak, hesitantly, of those wartime acquaintances whom he had hastily, and he now thought rather cruelly, thrown over on recognition of his vocation. ‘It meant you would have a lousy opening night and a short run.’ 

‘Let’s hope that doesn’t just hold for professionals. Has everyone gone?’ 

‘Yes. Down to the Green Man to drown their sorrows. Mark’s having a cigarette outside.’ 

‘Oh, tell him to go and join the others, for goodness’ sake! I want to finish this.’ 

‘Can’t let you, I’m afraid.’ Leonard perched on a tavern-scene barrel and waved a crowded keyring. ‘I have to lock up.’ 

‘Of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t think. Well, tomorrow will be time enough.’ She snipped off the thread, flipped the fabric over and surveyed it critically. 

‘It’s perfect,’ Leonard said. ‘Invisible.’ 

Hilary stowed her needle and scissors in a green felt case embroidered with daisies. ‘Woe betide you if it was anything less, where Aunt Ivy was concerned.’ 

It was the cruellest thing of all, Leonard thought, that Hilary’s best talents were linked so closely to her memories of that bleak, abusive household. She stood up, shook out the dress, and went to hang it up. 

‘How—how is everything, Hilary?’ he blurted. 

‘You do choose your moment to exercise your duty of pastoral care, I’ll say that for you,’ she said, addressing the rail of braided frock coats and ruffled gowns. 

‘I’m not asking as a priest.’ Both the note of indignation in his voice, and the certainty of it, surprised him. 

‘What then?’ she replied, half-turning her head to show a profile that reminded him of an actor he couldn’t quite place in a picture he couldn’t quite recall. An actor, not an actress, and perhaps that useless film he had seen with Daniel, the first time—was that why? Fruitless to speculate now. 

‘A friend. You don’t have to say.’ 

‘I know I don’t. But—all right, since you ask. In some ways I’m very happy.’ Her shoulders sagged in their neat cardigan. ‘I just don’t know what to do next. I said to Mark I didn’t at all mind being the scarlet woman, it was even rather funny, in its way. But he didn’t think so. And there is the question of his job. The headmaster was sympathetic about the Riley brothers, but I don’t think all the school governors were. Being the respondent in a divorce case on top of that—’ 

‘And his wife—’ 

‘No grounds. She’s a teacher too. Mark could hardly ask her to manufacture them. He never did anything the law would call cruelty—imagine, Mark, hitting—well, anyone, but a woman, or a child? He never spanks the children at school even. He says, in what other profession is it lawful to assault one’s clients?’ 

She met his eye, wounded but righteously angry in the lamp’s greenish underlight. ‘Not even that one. And he—’ she resumed, ‘—Mark turns over part of his salary to her, because it’s so much harder for a separated woman to find work, and she’s often short—so desertion could never fly.’ 

‘Oh dear, no. How—unforgiving it all is.’ 

‘Yes. And I’m thirty-five.’ She dived for her handbag, buried behind one of the drifts of cloth that seem to accumulate at the edges of amateur theatricals, and retrieved it, unplugging the lamp as she did so. It was a damp evening, and the natural light from the narrow mullioned windows was dull. She tilted her chin and gripped the bag in front of her. He found himself reminded irresistibly of Mrs C. Probably no-one would ever describe Hilary as _formidable_. But of course she was. 

‘And how are _you_ , Leonard?’ 

‘All right. Busy, as ever—oh, you do know, don’t you, I’m waiting to hear about a—a parish? Hanging about by the telephone in my curlers anxiously expecting the Bishop to ring.’ A year ago he would never have risked even such a mild touch of camp. She didn’t smile, and he felt a little bubble of panic bob into his throat, wondering if it had been a misjudgment. 

‘I’m not asking you as a priest.’ 

For a moment he was floored, speechless. He wrung his hands and stammered, ‘Gosh. Touché.’ 

‘When I worked it out, I was very hurt.’ 

‘I know, I should never have—’ 

She held up her free hand. ‘I felt used. And—indignant. You thought just like the girls at school, that because I was from a—a _strict_ home, and I didn’t wear fashionable clothes or make-up, or have much experience in life, that I wasn’t really—that I didn’t have desires like other women. That I’d put up with—’ 

‘I didn’t! I—perhaps I did. I didn’t think it through like that. Consciously. I just thought you seemed—suitable. Not too terrifying.’ 

‘No, I know. If you had thought about it you wouldn’t have done it. But I met Daniel in town and he said you’d been in rather a bad way, but things were much better now. I could see just by the way he said it how much he cared for you. That it went a long way beyond friendship. So we went for tea in the Copper Kettle. I asked, and he told me. I hope you don’t mind.’ 

‘I—I hope _you_ don’t. That I didn’t say anything myself, I mean.’ 

‘I understand. Every person who knows makes it more of a risk.’ She shifted her bag from hand to hand. ‘I do worry.’ 

He swallowed. What was it Sidney said? _The more you fear, the more fear finds you._ ‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘Strangely enough, I think it’ll be easier once I move away. I’ll be able to see more of Daniel where people don’t know him. One doesn’t really get much of a choice if the Bishop at either end has made his mind up, but I don’t want anywhere like this—well-heeled and secretive. Which is good, because I won’t get it.’ 

‘Come on,’ she said, indicating the way out. He held aside the curtain for her, and she ducked under it. ‘Won’t get it why? I would have thought a quiet parish would suit you.’ 

‘The scandalous Sidney Chambers casts a long shadow,’ he said, following her onto the stage. ‘And there’s no such thing as a quiet parish, not really. But I’m not the sort of person I thought I was, either. Not the sort of priest. I’ll always love books. But I don’t need them to escape into any more. They’ve taught me about life, and now life is teaching me something about them. If that makes any sense.’ 

‘Yes. I think so.’ She stared around at the painted flats depicting the grates, bars, locked doors and chains of Newgate. ‘Do you know, I think I was wrong.’ 

Leonard felt wobbly, but he caught his breath, swayed and stayed upright. ‘Wrong about what?’ 

‘Ambition. If we weren’t going to play it safe with _The Pirates of Penzance_ or something, we should have gone all out and done the modern version.’ 

‘The modern—?’ 

‘Yes— _The Threepenny Opera_. Brecht, you know. He based it on this.’ 

He felt weak again, but this time with mirth. ‘Oh, heavens. No—’ He dissolved into uncontrollable giggles. 

Hilary’s hand hovered about his forearm, then beat a nervous retreat. 

‘What on earth did I say?’ she asked. 

‘No—nothing. I can laugh now, but—oh, well, let’s say Grantchester hasn’t traditionally been the most suitable venue for Brechtian drama—’ 

She shook her head, her mouth moving in silent astonishment. ‘You mean, someone actually tried?’ 

‘Mm. Someone you know quite well. It’s a story that needs to be told over a port and lemon. If you’d allow me to treat you?’ 

Feeling slightly foolish, and not quite himself, as if he’d already had one too many, he offered a jocular arm. 

Hilary shoved his elbow away with a mischievous grin he’d never seen before. ‘I won’t say no. But I’ll get the first round in.’


	3. Winter 1956

Leonard paused on the riverbank. It had taken him a long time to get used to the Fens, to see that their flatness wasn’t featurelessness, that the big skies weren’t simply emptiness. Now he was headed North again—to a industrial village in the Calder Valley that both was, and was not, _back home_ —he knew he would miss not just the parishioners who passed across them, but the Meadows themselves in all their guises. And none more than this, at sunset on a clear winter evening, with frost forming on the clumps of sedge and the bare willow black against the pink and purple cloud, the sun like a gather of molten glass shaping at the end of the blower’s pipe.

There was a lot too, that he wouldn’t miss—he stopped himself before that became a distinctly uncharitable thought, and turned, with only half a backward glance, for the cottage by the wooden bridge. Remembering the last time he had approached it in comparable triumph, he felt faintly nauseated, his palms clammy despite the chilly air. That wasn’t going to happen again. He and Daniel had talked it through, this time: what their relationship was, what each of them could expect to give and receive, where the extremes and boundaries lay. When they were together, warmed by one of Daniel’s excursions into Elizabeth David, and (if the occasion warranted a treat—Daniel was very good at thinking up commemorations) a bottle of red wine, it all seemed very exciting. Explaining Aelred of Rivaulx’s theology of friendship, or discussing Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s prison correspondence, he felt that he was charting new territory, developing an ethics of romantic and physical attachment that his clerical training had denied him. On his own, he sometimes wondered if it were not more like the do-it-yourself eschatology that still rather flummoxed him when he encountered it in pastoral work: _I reckon it happens the way you believe, Vicar. I don’t believe nothing, so that’s what’ll happen to me. She believed this other thing, so that’s what she’s getting now she’s passed on._ Correction of the belief, as of the title, felt both pompous and futile, but he felt guilty when he didn’t do it.

Of nervous habit, he looked around before opening the gate and stepping in: he wondered if it really would be easier, as he remembered saying confidently to Hilary, when the infrequency of his meetings with Daniel was enforced by distance rather than prudence. They would meet unambiguously on the terms he meant to set this evening, though: that was something. He nodded to himself in renewal of the resolution. And Hilary really had been a brick. Her own situation was no closer to being sorted out, and he knew how she longed for a family.

The kitchen lights were warm behind the mint-green gingham curtains. Mrs C. had given Daniel the lengths as thanks for taking her wedding photographs and Hilary had run them up. _Half Wizard of Oz, half Chelsea bistro_ , Daniel said, mock-mournfully. _I think they might be trying to tell me something._ Leonard had a latch-key, but he knocked, a proper and expected guest.

‘Leonard?’ Daniel called. He came to the door, wringing a teatowel between his hands. The small kitchen table was set for two, with an uncorked bottle of claret between the places. Washed dishes were piled in the rack by the sink, and a delicious rich smell filled the air: vinous and Mediterranean, quite unlike one of Mrs C.’s resolutely Anglo-Saxon stews. ‘Come on in, you silly thing.’ He looked up, reading Leonard’s face anxiously, but it must have been uncharacteristically inscrutable, because Daniel bit his lip and looked diplomatic.

‘It’s all right,’ Leonard said. ‘I mean—it’s—it’s wonderful. They’ve offered me the parish, and I—I’ve accepted. I mean of course there’s formali—’

Daniel darted forward to meet his lips. Astonishing even himself—but start as you mean to go on—Leonard clapped a clumsy hand to the back of his neck to prolong the kiss.

‘Steady on there, Vicar.’ Daniel leaned back, the habitually melancholy cast of his eyes at odds with evident gratification.

‘I’m not—’

‘Near as dammit, now. Here, let me take your coat.’

‘Hang on,’ Leonard scrambled for the bottle in his overcoat pocket. ‘No, I mean, I won’t be a vicar when I take over at St Peter’s either. Actually, I’ll be what’s called a temporary curate, which, I know, sounds like a demotion—’

‘Ooh, Tanqueray. I’ve got some pretty superannuated lime cordial and some more youthful vermouth.’

‘Sidney’s gift. At least it’s not whisky. He said he absolutely couldn’t give me sherry, it was against all his principles.’

‘That’s our Mr Chambers,’ Daniel said from the passage, where he was hanging up Leonard’s coat. ‘But what’s this about temporary what’s-names—I was sure I’d snagged myself a proper vicar. That’s breach of promise, that is. Or maybe false trade description—’ He grimaced, as if aware he was pushing it a bit.

Reflecting that he would scarcely have got the joke at all a year ago, Leonard relented into a laugh. ‘I have incumbent status and an incumbent’s stipend. But my responsibilities to the parish are entirely spiritual, so no temporalities, no rights to farm the glebe land or duties to repair the chancel, which I must say is a _great_ relief. And I'm temporary because I'm not perpetual: it’s because the parish structure around there is being reorganised. It’s a bit _depressed_. The mill never really got going again after the Slump, and lots of the younger people moved away to Manchester and even further afield. But when the reorganisation’s finished—well, I’ll have to see, of course, but I’ll be in a good position for an incumbency then. It does smell delicious—can I help?’

‘Sit down. Carbonnade Nîmoise, or as the vulgar call it, mutton stew. And chocolate orange mousse for pudding. But we’ve time for a Gin and It, and you can translate that lot out of Anglican into English for me.’

By the time he had explained it all, and given his impressions of the new parish, the church whose chancel repairs were not his responsibility, the hierarchy of the new diocese, the house-that-was-not-a-vicarage, they had moved on to the living room and coffee. Daniel occupied the blue velveteen tub-chair, Leonard the old chintz sofa. At some point in the evening Daniel would probably come and sit beside him, lay his head on Leonard’s shoulder while they listened to the radiogram. They might kiss—on a few previous occasions the embrace had grown abandoned enough to make it pretty much mutton and mint sauce (which was Daniel’s family phrase denoting what you might as well be hanged for) as far as the law went. But he was courteous even in passion, always asking, always accepting Leonard’s no for an answer. _I’m not risking losing you again_ , he’d said simply, when his frustration was so evident that Leonard felt obliged to ask if he minded. _It’s not virtue. It nearly finished me the first time. Knowing it was all my own fault made it worse._ But they were a long way from that stage yet.

‘And will they give you a ferocious housekeeper, Church of England issue?’

‘No,’ Leonard said, ‘just a char to do the rough work, turning out and so on. Which I’m glad of. There isn’t much privacy in my present situation—and when you come to visit—’

‘I’ll rescue you from death by Spam and Fray Bentos.’

In the moment after the moment had definitively passed, Leonard thought of the dozens of flirtatious or sincere responses he might have made to this, one of Daniel’s tactful deflections that nonetheless did not entirely preclude amorous invitation. It seemed that his very determination to accept, indeed to initiate, an escalation in their physical intimacy stood in his way.

‘There’s a programme of songs from Shakespeare on the Third,’ he ventured, ‘at half-past eight. Finzi and Quilter, and so on. Rather fuddy-duddy even for me, but I think there’s some Britten in there as well—’

‘No, I think I’d like it. Give you a break from jazz, anyway. Has Sidney discovered bebop, or is he strictly mouldy fig?’

‘Oh, heavens. He’s determined to stay up to date, but he doesn’t really like it, and no wonder, it sounds like elephant-training time at the circus. He puts on Thelonious Monk when he’s feeling particularly self-mortifying and _glooms_. It makes his face go all rubbery, most unattractive—’

Daniel raised an eyebrow.

‘No,’ Leonard said, unselfconscious as he always was when he could be completely honest. ‘I never did. Why, did you?’

‘The appeal’s mainly to women, I think. And men who—you know, the doomed-either-way ones who can’t get off with someone unless they think he’s _normal_.’

‘And anyway, then he gives up, there’s a tremendous crash—which is just him lumbering half-cut across the room, he doesn’t throw things any more, or not much, and the pleasing strains of “The Streets of Antibes” drift in from the study—’

Getting up to turn on the wireless, Daniel laughed, but as he turned back his face was soft and shadowed with concern. ‘You’re thrilled to be getting out, aren’t you?’

‘No—yes. I mean—it’s been an eventful three years. Very good—’

‘In parts—’ It was a whiskery old joke between them, that Leonard was the original curate of egg fame, but he was coming to feel it no longer applied as well as it once had. He rolled his eyes and patted the sofa beside him.

‘It’s called optimism. You should try some.’

Daniel settled, leaning against him. Normally it would have been a comfortable warmth, but it was fraught now with what-next. He reminded himself that Daniel didn’t know that, and tucked an arm around his shoulders.

‘Can’t afford it,’ Daniel replied. ‘I’m self-employed, remember?’

There was another moment for something a bit cheeky, but no intelligible utterance would form, and again it passed. Leonard wondered that Daniel didn’t feel his thundering heartbeat, but perhaps it was always like this.

They listened in silence for a few minutes, then both spoke at once:

‘Quilter was qu—’

        ‘Hilary asked my what my fa—’

‘No, you first.’

‘No, you,’ Daniel conceded.

‘Oh—nothing. Hilary once asked me what my favourite poem by Shakespeare was. And everything I could think of was from the Sonnets, the wrong bit of the Sonnets, if you get me, though she might not have twigged in those days. So I panicked and said this one, “O mistress mine,” and she dashed off and sent for me a little anthology from America, with some rather flamboyant Kenny Meadows illustrations. Actually, that was what we were there to pick up, the day Martha Bennett held up the Post Office. Poor girl, I must write. I seem to have a lot of lifers in my address book.'

‘She was lucky. They might well have charged her with murder.’

This conversation wasn’t taking at all the turn Leonard had hoped for—and feared, too, he had to admit.

‘What was yours?’ he said quickly, giving Daniel’s shoulder a gentle squeeze and nuzzling his hair, which, as ever, smelled of Pears soap overlaid with vinegary sulphur from the darkroom. It wasn’t wholly pleasant in itself, but it meant Daniel, which made it so.

‘Oh—nothing too. Just that Roger Quilter was queer, wasn’t he? Some sort of tragic obsession with his nephew?’

‘Mm. Quite doo-lally, near the end of his life.’

Daniel raised his chin to look up at him. ‘It reminded me. When I was doing basic training at Chatham there was a bloke—we must have been on a charge, because we were cleaning latrines. I was pretty much always on a charge. Couldn’t keep my webbing blancoed to anything like the required standard. But he kept whistling a bit of the _Pathetique_ and eventually, because he clearly wanted _someone_ to notice he was half-civilised, I said, “Tchaikovsky.” And he replied, “I read somewhere once, Tchaikovsky was queer.” And I said—would you believe, but I was only eighteen, “Really? They never actually put him away, though?” and he said, “Oh, it didn’t come out in his lifetime.” I must just have gaped at him, because he gave up. Took me about a week to work out what he actually meant: not queer-bonkers, queer- _queer_. Not long before we left the camp, we were lounging about quarters and the symphony came on the wireless, to jeers and missiles, naturally. But before it was completely drowned out, I looked over at him, just in sympathy really, I don’t think I had a clue about myself. His face was completely blank. He didn’t recognise it it at all: he’d just memorised a motif for a chat-up line. I wonder sometimes if normal people—I mean, it just seems, somehow, that one careens from one social embarrassment to the next.’

‘Oh, dear. Oh, Daniel.’

Daniel twisted in his arms to kiss him: a hopeful but mannerly kiss, one hand cupping Leonard’s cheek, the other slipping between his sports coat and jersey to caress the small of his back.

‘You never come to see me in your clericals,’ he murmured. ‘I’d like you to. I think it’s what they call a kink.’

‘Three-quarters of the flower-arranging rota have it if it is—I mean,’ he added, suddenly anxious. ‘Not for me. For—’

‘Shh.’ Daniel laid a finger on his lips, then replaced it with his own. The kiss that followed was longer and deeper, outlasting ‘Who is Sylvia? Who is she?' and leaving them both breathless. Leonard tugged, he hoped with a certain debonair carelessness, at his tie.

‘Daniel—I’d like it if we—you’ve been so patient.’

Daniel’s eyes shone. A lock of hair had fallen forward onto his forehead and a wonky crest stood up behind it.

‘Are you sure? You won’t regret it?’ He gulped and said, almost savagely, ‘Dammit, you _won’t_ regret it. I’ll see to that.’

Leonard’s assent was a very undebonair squeak, and as he reached to draw Daniel back to him he was quivering like a particularly timid aspen, but he’d never been more certain of anything in his life: a giddy, unsteady certainty that was like the inverse of the staunch and abiding uncertainty that was his call to the service of God. And yet he knew this also was from God, not from His Adversary, that it was love yearning to be expressed, not lust demanding to be discharged.

As they kissed again, Daniel was positioned—almost in his lap—so as to make his erection unmistakable against Leonard’s thigh. Daniel groaned and pressed closer, thrusting as he kissed his neck and jaw. Leonard was fully hard himself, enjoying the sense of arousal and strain more than he ever had, though more than ever unsure how it could possibly be relieved before his hammering heart burst.

Daniel put his hand against Leonard’s groin and stroked upward; he gasped at the touch—not quite the first, but the first he was determined not to shy away from. He lifted his hips slightly in what he hoped was encouragement. Evidently, it worked and then some, because Daniel slid from the sofa to kneel between Leonard's open legs.

Over the next forty years, parishioners would have cause to observe, at charity galas, school concerts and festival competitions, that while a lot of people got a bit misty when the programme included ‘Fear no more the heat o’ the sun,’ decorously pretend-yawning behind polite hands or surreptitiously raising a hanky to stifle a non-existent cough, and some exceptionally sensitive souls were even obliged to leave the room, the reaction of the Revd Mr Finch was very different: a backwards tilt of the head and broad beatific smile, eyelids fluttering to stay open, a minute expansion of his normally self-contained and fastidious posture. The censorious among them didn’t think it quite worthy of him, those with a mind to modern music that it was typical of a vicar to be transported by the pastoral banalities of Quilter or Vaughan Williams, the sentimental that it must surely remind him of a shady corner of a sun-drenched English field and a lost love—as the Seventies wore on into the Eighties and Nineties, the sex of the sweetheart in this touching picture sometimes changed, though the chastity of the encounter never did: one didn’t like to speculate somehow, not about Mr Finch.

It took Leonard some time to recover from the experience—rather longer than it had lasted. But when he could finally breathe with something like regularity, and open his eyes, Daniel was sitting beside him again, chin on his fist, elbow propped on the low back of the sofa. The melting affection in his merry-mournful eyes didn’t quite exclude a gleam of triumph. Leonard let his head loll to one side, and mumbled, ‘What—how can I—I mean—do you want?’

‘Stay the night.’

Every objection, plausible and implausible, to this course of action—Mrs C., or her alleged replacement Gillian, whom Mrs C. had been ‘training up’ for eighteen months despite Gillian’s manifest competence, might arrive early and find his bed unslept in, it was his turn to walk Dickens, Morning Prayer for the feast of St Nicholas, the unfortunate collision of his absence with some investigation Sidney had got himself enmeshed in—flooded into the dim, agreeable vacancy that had, before Daniel’s delightful attentions, been his mind.

‘Please,’ Daniel said. ‘You can leave before dawn if you like. I’ll set my alarm clock. But stay.’

Leonard sat up straighter. ‘I don’t—’ He thought then of his own small room, the sink and bookshelf and candlewick counterpane, the pyjamas folded on the pillow. How ridiculous, how miserable, how ungenerous—how blasphemous and—and _obscene_ to go back there, when Daniel had waited so patiently for a year and more, made no demands, given everything, simply and single-heartedly.

Daniel was on his feet, at the base of the narrow, steep staircase to the bedroom in the eaves. Feeling at once very silly and very pleased, Leonard rose, then in sudden alarm clutched at his waistband, to discover that the button had been fastened by the considerate hand that now reached out to him. And with wandering steps and slow, they climbed the stairs together.


End file.
